


It's Magic

by waywardrose



Series: My Baby Just Cares for Me [5]
Category: Saturday Night Live
Genre: 1940s, Creeping into sugar-daddy territory, Don't copy to another site, Euphemisms, F/M, No Racism, Old-Fashioned, Sheltered-artist reader, Stand Alone, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-22
Updated: 2019-12-22
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:55:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21897022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waywardrose/pseuds/waywardrose
Summary: Don't go to art school, they said.
Relationships: Abraham H. Parnassus/You
Series: My Baby Just Cares for Me [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1484900
Comments: 4
Kudos: 27





	It's Magic

**Author's Note:**

> Anon1: Omg I came to give compliments on the Abe Drabble and upon seeing your askbox says ‘prompt me’ then I surely will prompt u 😝 it really caught my eye the fact that Abe and his love defiled her art workshop at their home, can you tell us how that first time went? Meanwhile, I’m gonna go re-read the post because it was so goood!
> 
> Anon2: Hi! If you’re accepting prompts, I would love to hear about Abe and his wife during their courtship, I think it’d be hilarious with her being proper and Abe being Abe haha. Maybe one night he slips into her bedroom to say goodnight and has to restrain from not tearing her nightgown away? Or they’re just walking in a garden and he’s trying not to kiss her. It can be as fluffy or as smutty as you wish, of course! Your creativity is marvellous, can’t wait to see anything else you’ll write xx
> 
> WR: Okay, I lied earlier about only combining two of the Abe prompts. I read both of these, and an idea came out of nowhere to fricken maul me! [Dr. Phil: Thank you for that...] This piece has elements of both prompts. I hope it satisfies! Thank you, sweet nonnies, for reading, the compliments, and prompting me! I really do appreciate it—and you.

_Don't go to art school_ , they said.

You sighed at the large wad of clay that was supposed to be a hollowed-out mountain. It looked like a... _a pile of turds._ You didn't know how you were going to fit the mirror inside the top so when the observer leaned over, they'd see themselves.

 _You'll never earn enough money to live on_ , they said. _No one cares about real art these days._

You had given the piece the working title of "Holy Mountain."

Maybe they were right. Maybe you weren't cut out for this life. You couldn't even manipulate clay to make a rudimentary mountain. You didn't know why you wanted the observer to interact with the piece. Your ideas were all over the place.

You tossed the encrusted loop tool onto the bench and looked at your dirty hands. You couldn't believe you'd turned down a date with Abraham to work on this stupid project. The school was practically deserted on a Friday night. Though, the janitor was running the floor polisher one level down.

You could've had a nice meal with Abraham. Maybe gone dancing afterwards. Yet here you were: wearing a tired outfit and dirty smock, alone and hungry. You feared if you postponed another date with him, he'd find someone else.

There were plenty of girls he could ask out. Girls who wouldn't ruin a manicure with paint and clay. Charming girls with perfect hair and safe topics to discuss in polite company. You didn't know why he was interested in you, nor why he'd approached you during the student art show at the end of last quarter.

He was an executive with one of the corporate sponsors for the show, Sanders and Pickens Global Oil & Gas. He'd been imposing with his dark, penetrating eyes, bespoke navy suit, and impressive height. But then he'd told you an off-color joke about an unused Carnation Milk slogan. It shocked you right into laughter. He smiled, offering his elbow, and asked you to guide him through the show.

It had been easy to talk with him. He listened when you explained your piece. And then he had flirted, which made your already-thumping heart kick into high gear. He'd said your work reflected your beauty. You scoffed, but he insisted.

He'd said, "I see you here," as he motioned to your mixed-media abstract. "And I'm spellbound."

"You make me sound like a witch."

"An enchantress."

You looked into his bourbon-brown eyes to see sincerity. You were quiet for a beat too long. You didn't know how to reply. No one had ever spoken to you like he had.

He ducked his head. "You must pardon my overstep," he said and made to move away.

You tightened your grip on his bicep, insisting: "You haven't—!" You placed your other hand on his forearm. "Overstepped... I'm not used to..."

"A man taking interest?"

You shook your head.

"Well, I have. Is that a problem?"

Again, you shook your head.

"Are you interested in me?"

This time, you nodded with a grin.

He grinned back, the flirtatiousness returning. "Well... Are you _amenable_ to seeing me outside this art show?"

His eyes flashed with bold warmth when you'd giggled like a little girl. He suddenly looked so young. His striking face glowed, more interesting than any art around you.

 _"Yes!"_ you'd laughed.

After that, he'd strutted around with you on his arm, all blushing smugness. Your cheeks had radiated heat, more from pleasure rather than embarrassment. He'd been so debonair at the end of the show, asking for your number and kissing the back of your hand.

He called the next day to arrange a date for the coming weekend. You recall sitting next to the house phone in the hallway and how every other boarder had something _very_ important to do outside her respective room. You'd hidden your hot face when he again called you his enchantress.

The questions the girls had after the call were embarrassing. They wanted to know all about Abraham. They had advice for your hair and cosmetics and how to style your limited wardrobe for a fancy night out. They offered perfume and extra rollers for your hair.

It had all been so overwhelming.

You weren't fancy. Any money your parents gave you went to art supplies. You only owned cream rouge and loose powder. Most of your clothes were from high school, and you only had one pair of black pumps.

But none of that mattered when he knocked on the door that Saturday. He didn't notice you'd hidden the scuffs on your pumps with ink. Or that your dress was faded and the stones of your brooch were paste.

He'd smiled at you and escorted you to his maroon Cadillac convertible, which he'd parked illegally out front. When you glanced back at the house, you saw multiple faces in the big parlor windows, in multiple states of skin care, looking back. The girls cheered when you gave them a small wave.

And the end...

A new wave of heat flowed through your cheeks.

The end of that first date had been wonderful—everything you'd read about in the books you weren't supposed to know.

He'd taken you to the Shakespeare Garden after dinner. You marveled at the riot of colors. There were waxy tulips in punchy reds and oranges. He sat with you on a bench under a magnolia tree—his favorite—and talked about art and philosophy.

You learned about his parents, finding his beginnings had been as humble as yours. He didn't care that you had no money. He didn't care about a lot of things a younger you had been told were important.

All he wanted was to be a successful oil-man and provide for those he loved.

Your eyes met as the sky went from coppery pink to misty purple. His arm had been behind you, thumb stroking one of your scapulae. His gaze was so direct, you wanted to look away. If he looked too closely, he's see how out of place you were.

Instead, he gave you a soft grin and leaned in. At first, you minutely angled back, but you realized it was habit. You didn't actually want to move away. And he gave you space to decide as he silently asked for permission to kiss you.

In the end, you'd brazenly closed the distance for the kiss. It had been awkward, your nose bumping into his. He chuckled, murmuring that his beak was getting in the way.

"No," you whispered, smiling. "It's a beautiful nose."

"All the better to smell you with."

You laughed at that, cupping his cheek in your palm. His eyes were like diamonds in the twilight as he scooted closer. You kissed him again, and he slanted his head.

And it'd been perfect.

His full lips eagerly pressed against yours. He taught you kiss by kiss how to let go. You touched his hair, the rims of his ears, his angular jaw. You tasted the manicotti and red wine on his lips—and then his tongue.

It was so wicked, and you were dizzy for more. Your body was alight with desire. You'd never felt that way before, not with anyone.

Abraham's arm behind your back curled you towards him. His other hand rested high on your thigh, right where the garter clipped to your stockings. It made you all too aware of the flimsy fabric separating his heavy hand from your flesh.

You pulled away when you remembered you two were in public. How could you forget? Anyone could see. They'd think you fast and him a lecher.

You whispered, "Sorry," and hid your hot face.

He gently shushed you and offered his hand, which you held in both of yours—

A sharp rap on the studio doorjamb jolted you out of your memory. You turned to see Abraham in the open doorway, holding a jug of beer and a greasy brown-paper bag.

You jumped to your feet. "Oh goodness!" Your clay-crusted hands darted to your hair until you remembered how dirty they were. "What—?"

"I couldn't live another night without seeing you," he dramatically announced, stepping inside.

You laughed to hide how downhearted you were about your sculpture and told him to make himself comfortable. The door clunked closed behind him as you washed your hands at the big sink at the back of the room.

You were startled once more when Abraham slid a hand around your back.

"Something wrong, my darling?" he asked.

 _Darling._ The endearment felt so good, you almost cried. No one had ever called you that.

You swallowed around the lump in your throat. "No, it's just this silly project."

You turned off the water, and Abraham handed you a paper towel from the stack.

"It's in the early stages," he said to comfort. "What's the concept?"

"The inviolable divinity of the spirit. Any holiness you find on a mountaintop is the holiness you brought up there."

You didn't want to tell him you had beatnik friends who'd introduced you to transcendentalism. Your parents would be horrified, afraid you were crazy from reefer and engaging in free love and anarchism. You didn't want to scare Abraham away, either. He was a sensible businessman, not some feral bohemian who lived off exotic coffee and jazz. And you certainly didn't want him knowing you were open to that sort of thing just yet.

"That _is_ quite the topic."

You sighed as you finished drying your hands. "It's supposed to be a mountain." You turned to him and looked at the pile of clay-turds on the worktop. "But look at it."

"Mountains aren't built in a day."

"You're right," you breathed and rested your forehead on his chest.

Then you remembered you were wearing a grubby smock. You gasped, saying you didn't want to dirty his clothes as you stepped away. His nice blue button-down, brown tweed slacks, and driving jacket didn't look contaminated, though.

He said with a sly tone, "Then why don't you take this off?"

Your cheeks were like flames as you admonished him: "Abraham!"

"Just Abe, my darling. You know only my mother calls me by my full name."

While that might be true, you privately thought Abraham was a good name, a strong name.

"If that's what you want."

"Or you could try any number of pet names."

"Oh?" You smiled as you took a few steps to throw the damp paper towel in the trash. "Which would you prefer?"

"How about 'lover'?"

The smile melted from your lips as you froze. "I'm not sure that's... right."

"We could remedy that."

"I'm not—" _A hussy._ "I want—" _Love first._ "I don't think that's appropriate."

"What I feel for you isn't appropriate in the slightest."

Your breath caught in your throat, heart wrenching in your chest. You grabbed the counter next to you as your knees quaked.

"What do you feel?" you croaked. "For me?"

"I wish to hear from you every day. I want to know you. I want to kiss you good-night, kiss you everywhere." Your ears burned at that, but he continued, "Touch you all over."

You took a step back in fear. But you didn't know what you were afraid of. Your heart was pounding in your chest.

"Take off that smock." His dark eyes caressed you, ate you up. "Please."

Your hands went to the smock's top button. You looked down at them, wondering why they were obeying him. They trembled. Were you actually afraid? _Of Abe?_

This didn't feel like fear. This was something new—something adjacent and unexplored. You couldn't name it, had never experienced it, but you didn't want to run away from it.

"Please," he said again. "I won't compromise you."

As you unbuttoned the smock, he shrugged off his jacket and tossed it over a nearby stool. You watched him roll up the sleeves of his shirt. His forearms were elegantly muscled, his hands sturdy.

You felt immature and inexperienced in your pilling short-sleeved knit top and dirty saddle shoes. Your tartan skirt was starting to fray at the hem. You fisted the smock in front of you in an attempt to hide the state of your old clothes.

Abe slowly approached, holding out a hand to take the smock from you. With a deep breath, you gave it to him. You adjusted the neckline of your top and stood straight as he draped the smock over a table.

When he turned back, he looked you over with an unfamiliar mien. "My little sweater girl," he crooned.

"No, I—" You went hot for the nth time and smoothed down your skirt. "It's from high school. I haven't replaced it yet."

"Maybe I can help you replace it?"

"Oh, I couldn't!"

"I want to," he said and stilled your hands, taking them in his. "Let me."

"I..."

"Let me take care of you."

You nodded and watched him bring your hands to his lips. He kissed your knuckles and turned your hands over to kiss your palms. You cradled his face, thumbs stroking his cheekbones. He inched forward as he wet his lips.

He whispered, "Will you let me now?"

You nodded again, drawing him in. The second his lips touched yours, you knew you were a goner. With hands at your waist, he pressed his front to yours. He kissed you hard, invading and teasing you with his tongue. He nipped at your bottom lip, sucked at the sting.

All you could do was hang on and try to reciprocate while he teased these desperate sounds from your chest. You clutched at his shoulders and thick hair. You sucked at his tongue, feeling wonderfully dirty.

His body was all hard lines and firm muscle. He rubbed against you and groaned against your lips. The urge to wrap your thighs around his hips shocked you, had you gasping at your own shamelessness.

"Can I touch you?" Abe half-slurred, sounding so unlike himself.

He was already touching you, but you knew what he meant. The hazy thought of his big hands under your shirt had you nodding. You raised yourself on tip-toe to kiss him once more.

He swooped in to devour you. One arm went around the small of your back while his other hand glided up your side. His touch was slow and ardent, making you want so many new things.

When his palm cupped the side of your breast, you froze mid-kiss. His thumb skimmed the underside and glanced off your nipple. You shivered as a tingly wave of pleasure swept down your body.

Abe whispered, "Shall I continue?"

You knew you should say no. Good girls weren't felt up like this—at their school, where anyone could walk in. But there was nowhere else to go. You certainly couldn't go home with him. You'd be _ruined._ And he couldn't come with you to the house. Men weren't allowed on the second floor.

But his bold touch felt good. You wanted him to fondle you and give you what you'd only read about.

You met his gaze. "Yes, please."

He gave you a devilish smirk before kissing you again. You let your hands wander over his shoulders and into his hair. His touch was electric, even through clothes. You arched into it, encouraging without words.

In reply, his other hand squeezed your rear. It was delicious and wrong. You shouldn't let him do that, and you pushed at his shoulder, breaking the kiss.

"Abe, we can't," you said.

"Yes, we can. No one's up here but us."

"But..."

"Do you not like it?"

It wasn't a matter of not liking. You wanted him to respect you. If you were easy, he'd use you and throw you away. Wouldn't he? That's what everyone said about dating: Men were wolves after one thing.

"It's not that," you replied.

"Oh?" He dipped down to mouth at your neck. "What is it, then?" he murmured.

You bit your lip at his gentle touch and breath ghosting over your skin. He drew you closer as he kissed his way up your neck to your jaw. Your head went fuzzy with his kisses. You couldn't remember what you were protesting.

His voice was low as he said, "Tell me to stop and I will."

"I..."

"You're so tempting, you know. So beautiful. I can't take it."

"Abe..." you whimpered and took hold of his face, angling him up for a kiss.

His swollen lips crushed against yours, urgent and hungry. He forced his tongue inside to sweep over yours. All you could do was hang on and surrender. He overwhelmed in the best way. Everything—every worry or nagging fret—beyond him fell away.

His hands grasped your rear, and he hoisted you off your feet. You gasped, clinging to him like you'd die if you didn't. He set you on the counter, nudged his way between your knees, and dragged you to the very edge.

With your torso tight to his, your skirt rucked up, and thighs on either side of his hips, you knew he could compromise you. He was already. Because you wanted _more._

You wanted to feel his hands on you, know his touch and all his kisses.

He tilted your chin up. His eyes were so dark, cheeks so pink. He caressed your bottom lip with a thumb. You kissed the pad of his finger.

Abe stared at your mouth before asking again: "Shall I continue?"

You swallowed, thinking of his promise not to compromise you. Maybe he had no intention of doing so, but you didn't know if you could trust yourself. You adjusted your seat on the counter, feeling your underwear wetly cling between your legs.

How embarrassing.

"I don't know, Abe..." You looked away. "I'm not, ya know—" You shrugged. "I need to clean up."

"You don't smell dirty to me, my love."

He leaned in and down to kiss your neck again. Your eyes rolled back as he left a path of biting kisses down your neck. You hugged him and fisted his shirt.

He whispered, "Unless you don't mean bathing."

"I don't," you replied just as softly.

"Can I make it better?"

"Better, how?"

"Can I help you forget?"

Your skirt slithered up your thighs little by little. You reached down to stop it, meeting Abe's hands bunched in the fabric. If he saw, or God forbid, caught a whiff of how turned on you were...

"Let me make it better."

You had a feeling he meant make it worse.

He purred, "I'll make you feel good."

He held the outsides of your bare upper thighs. His warm fingertips were centimeters from your underwear. You shouldn't let him touch you like this. It didn't matter how right it felt.

"I—"

He cut off your protest: "Just you. Only you."

His eyes smoldered with lust. A lock of hair curled over his forehead. He was captivating, and you wondered if prey felt like this when a predator approached.

"I'll do anything," he rasped.

You placed your hands over his and drew them up the scant distance to your underwear. He softly groaned and kissed you hard. You braced yourself with hands on the counter, kissing him back and sucking on his bottom lip.

His thumbs slid between your legs to rub at the cotton of your underwear. You squirmed against the gentle pressure of his touch. It almost satisfied.

He purred against your lips as his fingers found your slit. He must feel how wet you are. You wanted to apologize or explain.

Abe broke the kiss to say, "Such a dirty girl you are, sweetheart."

"Oh, I—"

_"I love it."_

"Oh..."

"Shall I keep going?" he asked as he massaged your sensitive flesh.

Your mouth dropped open, and you nodded. His stroking fingers felt so good. And was even better when he concentrated at the top of your slit. Your hips rotated against his fingers. You couldn't stop yourself, your body moved of its own accord.

He caught your lips with his own. Surrendering to his kiss and touch felt right; inevitable since that first date. You wanted everything from him.

You skimmed your hands under the collar of his shirt as you lost yourself in his kisses. His skin was silky smooth and hot. The wet rub of your underwear over your nerves sent sparks up your belly. But it wasn't enough.

You mewled, spreading your knees and curling your pelvis up.

He pulled away to shush you. "Not enough, is it?"

You bit your lip and shook your head.

"That's all right, darling. I know what to do."

He drew his hands from under your skirt. You wordlessly protested, but he shushed you again.

"Trust me," he murmured.

He snaked his hand between the ribbed hem of your top and the waistband of your skirt. You didn't know what he was doing. Nothing up your shirt was going to help this growing, gnawing tension inside you.

Instead of going up your body, he went down. Between your stomach and underwear.

"Wha...?"

"Trust me."

He maneuvered to the side and then plunged his big hand down your underwear. You stiffened and put a hand on his forearm. Not necessarily to stop him, but you needed the contact.

He slowed as his fingertips touched your pubic hair. You shivered and couldn't tell if it was from excitement or anxiety. He lowly praised how soft your skin was, how he needed to touch you. You nodded and held your breath. You needed it, too.

At first contact of his fingers to your delicate slit, you drew in air. This was really happening. It was no fantasy.

"So slick and hot," he commented.

You hid your overheated face in his broad shoulder as you fought not to beg for more. You almost lost when he pushed right between your folds. It felt so good. You didn't want him to stop now.

He stroked with two thick fingers, slow and delicious. You breathed in his aftershave as your head swam with such new pleasure.

"One day," he hotly said. "I'm going to lay you on our bed and take you like this."

"This" turned out to be fingers slowly pushing inside you.

You cried out before slapping a hand over your mouth. No one could know what he was doing to you.

He continued, "It won't be my fingers in this honeypot." He eased them out and back in again. "It'll be my _cock."_

You groaned at his vulgarity as your body protested a little at the penetration. Though, it hardly deterred you from wanting to feel that unyielding, yet luscious fullness.

When his words finally registered, you realized he wanted more than just this with you. He wanted it all with you. He'd said "our bed" like he was setting up the future.

Your heart soared. Because that future—a future with him—sounded wonderful.

"You want that?" he asked as he steadily pumped his fingers. "Want me to be your first?"

You nodded, uncovering your mouth, and breathed, "Yes."

He kissed your temple and edged his fingers out. You almost asked for him to push inside again when his fingertips darted over a tender bud of nerves at the top of your sex. It was as though he'd touched a live wire, except the shock went through you.

You muffled a moan with your hand again. He asked if that was good, and you nodded as you gripped his shoulder. He placed his other hand on your lower back. It steadied you, keeping you in the moment.

"I have you," he said and held you close as he petted that hypersensitive bud between your legs.

Each slide of his fingers made your body tense. You held onto him as he tightened his hold on you. His arm flexed between your bodies. His deft fingers worked you until your whole body was tense and shaking. There was no pause, no relief.

You needed some release.

 _"Please,"_ you begged from behind your hand.

Abe pressed harder, worked faster. You weren't sure that would help. Your eyes went wide and you bit your lip as the tenseness morphed into fevered strain. You couldn't find the words to demur. It wasn't bad—not at all. It was too foreign to wrap your head around, though. It seemed your body knew what was happening as it went rigid.

You couldn't move, couldn't catch your breath, and you weren't sure you wanted to get away. All you could do was take it.

Without warning, the strain snapped like a rubber band. You sagged in his arms as this torrent of torrid ecstasy surged from between your legs to heat every inch of your body. It went on and on, thudding like a heartbeat.

Abe cooed, "That's my darling."

You numbly nodded. You _were_ his. You didn't want anyone else touching you like this. No one had ever made you feel like this.

His fingers stilled to rest against your body. You were so wet; slick and yet sticky. The titillating stories you'd read failed to mention this part of lovemaking. A part of you was mortified and wanted to apologize, but he didn't appear to mind.

"You're so beautiful," he softly said, making your embarrassment vanish.

You met his eyes as you rested your hands on his chest. "Thank you."

He smiled, brilliant and sly. "Oh, my love, I should be thanking _you."_

"I didn't... Is there anything— Should I...?"

You wondered if Abe wanted you to reciprocate. You didn't know how to do that. Not that you didn't know what a penis looked like. You'd seen medical illustrations and taken Life Drawing class. You'd also seen enough crude gestures to know what men did to themselves. However, you weren't sure you could satisfy him with only that knowledge.

"Just let me continue to love you."

"You love me?"

"I told you when I met you, you'd bewitched me. You've had me ever since."

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr](https://the-wayward-rose.tumblr.com)


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